


In Prospect

by arcjet



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, One Night Stands, Unplanned Pregnancy, arthur gets the gold and the girl so why he still sad, im sad too i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcjet/pseuds/arcjet
Summary: Eliza thinks the new stranger in town may be different from the others. He tells her he's worse, and she knows exactly what he means.Perhaps she doesn't mind as much as she should.





	1. 1890

**Author's Note:**

> This is my interpretation of how Arthur and Eliza would have met, time and time again until her and Isaac's death. It makes me sad when he talks about it and this is how I get to get all my emotions out so. Thanks for reading!

She’s barely clasped the straps of her pinafore over her day dress before Annie is chatting mindlessly in her ear, rushing up to where she idles by the counter to gossip about the new wagons that have trailed through town. It’s of little interest to her, but her blonde companion continues to whisper until Mister Ward shoos them away from the bar, chiding them waiting around like strumpets.

Mister Ward is often concerned about how they look, perhaps rightfully so. A prospector town full of temporary men far away from their wives and morals would fall quickly into sin and debauchery, but he’s a pious man, as Eliza is so often reminded as her eyes drift over the cross pinned to the saloon wall. A good man, she would even deign to say, when there are so few good men left.

Summer is waning quickly, but that’s a relief to her—there’s still a few solid months left in the mining season, but the sheets will need less washing and the floor less dusting once it cools off. It’s hot this far west, hot and dry, but the winters at least are bearable, and autumn tends to settle in beautifully. It’s her favorite season, when her pinafore doesn’t itch the sweat out of where it pinches her shoulders and the multiple layers under her dress don’t weigh on her hips when her shift has ended.

There are few patrons in the establishment, just hungover dwindlers bemoaning their lost pay scattered around separate tables. She sets off with a pot of fresh coffee as Annie twirls away to the kitchen, cleaning the morning plates from the inn’s residents in case any wandering workers come in for a late breakfast.

She notices the swinging shadow of the saloon doors before she hears his footsteps approach, halting a few feet behind her. With a smile prepared, she turns to offer him their various accommodations—a hot meal, fresh coffee, a vacant room—but he’s looking away towards the bar, where Mister Ward is polishing glasses. A hat obscures most of his face, though a square chin juts out from the shadow, set beneath stern lips.

A newcomer, she recognizes immediately. Mining towns are full of them, and hers is no different. She makes a point to learn just enough about each new regular to encourage another glass, draining their daily wages as they do to the rivers and mountains before migrating to a new frontier. She’s sure he’s the same, and simply nods her acknowledgment before moving tables.

Eliza can see out of the corner of her eye an excited mess of blonde curls duck out from the kitchen doors. Annie joins her at the back wall, glassy green eyes glued to the stranger as he beelines for the counter, one hand firmly set on his belt buckle.

“Mornin’,” is all she hears him say, before his voice lowers considerably and he’s leaning forward over counter.

“My God, I wish we could hear what he’s askin’,” Annie sighs. She’s a young girl, even younger than Eliza, and it’s innocent curiosity that opens her mouth and says too much, nothing more. Eliza herself has found that nothing much can sway a curiosity such as that, and simply directs a skeptical glance towards her. “Don’t suppose he needs a coffee?”

She nods towards the metal pot in Eliza’s hands, which is nearly running empty with all the rounds she’s made.

“He didn’t order breakfast,” Eliza replies simply.

“Must be here for the mines,” she observes keenly. “There ain’t nothing else in this damn town. But then why’s he gotta ask Mister Ward about ‘em?”

“If he was here for the mines, he would’ve ordered breakfast,” Eliza points out.

“Ain’t got a speck of dynamite soot on his boots or hands,” Annie continues, enraptured. “Could be his first migration, though he’s a little old to just start out, isn’t he?”

Eliza doesn’t understand how Annie can see so much so quickly, but upon second inspection of the newcomer, she realizes the younger girl is correct. His boots are scuffed but unburned, and the back of his neck where his hair curls slightly around his ears is a deep tan. If he’s spent any time at all in the dark depths of a cave, it hasn’t been much.

Then Annie turns suddenly, busying herself with a sudden fervor that could only indicate Mister Ward has caught them gossiping like harlots behind their fans again. An immediate glance up to confirm freezes Eliza in her haste when she catches the stranger staring back instead, the arch of her boss’s shoulders turned firmly away. His hat had been placed on the counter next to him, revealing his face in full, and he observes her with lidded blue eyes and an unexpected intensity. A cigarette dangles from his lips, loose and unlit, and he tilts his head slightly in greeting.

“I oughta refill this,” Eliza mutters suddenly, ducking for the kitchen. Annie hums in reply, though a small pink smirk knowingly lines her lips. He’s handsome, is all, or maybe just cleaner than they’re accustomed to, and Annie’s imagination is probably running wild.

The newcomer has left by the time she returns.

—

Her feet still ache even after she’s sat down for her dinner, which precedes the end of the miners’ workday by exactly a half-hour. When she returns to the saloon interior, apron pinned neatly against her shoulders, there’s already a hefty energy as the evening slides into place. Mister Ward had her peeling carrots for the better part of the day, and she’s almost relieved when she steps through the kitchen doors, rejoining the real world with trays of stew in hand.

Annie had been right: the saloon is nearly full to the brim, and there are plenty of new faces, freshly dusted black from their first days in the cave. She’ll get to know them over the following weeks before they’re utterly unrecognizable again, soot caked into their faces like a mask, beards grown out and hands blistered from firm grips on a pickaxe. But it’s been a good day for prospecting, it seems, and the bowls of stew tremble in her hands as she weaves her way between tables.

She prioritizes the old regulars first, the ones who know the secret to early mornings is a stomach full of food before general devolvement into ales and rye, and she can see Annie silently filling glasses behind the bar next to Mister Ward, who is positively beaming from the stream of new business.

In the dullest corner of the saloon, tucked away such that the long strands of waning sunlight can’t quite illuminate, she finds two older patrons, one oddly clean-shaven for a man of his age and the other with just a groomed moustache. There isn’t a barber for miles, though some newcomers did attempt to maintain facades of hygiene by themselves before succumbing to the wild, and she assumes they are doing as such.

She serves them with a small smile, noticing only in passing their suntanned faces and slender hands, still thicker than hers were, of course, but not fattened by layers of calluses. Though she means to move on, relying on Annie for any details she’ll indubitably inform her of as they sweep the floors during close, she’s interrupted by the older of the two.

“Give this to the gentleman in blue, would you dear?” He asks, and a smooth piece of note paper is slid into her palm, accompanied by a cold nickel. He’s got the kind eyes of a preacher or a conman, but as soon as she tries to tell him she hasn’t seen any gentlemen in blue, he’s looked past her, observing with his partner the bustling expanse of the bar.

An innocuous yet strange endeavour, she reckons, tucking the note and her tip into the folds of her dress. As the town swells with workers, so have the number of occasional travelers and lawmen and merchants, seeking their glory in the more reliable deposits of the desperation of men. She knows the type and she leaves the pair to be, watching the crowd as if for no one in particular.

The stew pot burns dry and there’s still no sign of this gentleman in blue, though there are plenty in what may have once been blue, now dusted over or faded in the sun. Somehow, none of the patrons feel like the one the other has asked for, and she catches the pair staring at her everytime she considers it.

She clasps the nickel in her pocket, wondering if she’ll be so inclined to return it, when suddenly, she’s affronted by an entire sea of blue, the glasses stacked high in her arms threatening to topple as she nearly barrels over.

“Watch yourself, miss,” he murmurs, and makes his point by steadying the wobbling glasses, leaving Eliza to balance herself between his chest and a table corner. The buzz around her fades away and she can feel his eyes on her as humiliation burns through her neck and up to her cheeks. His voice is low but gentle when he adds dryly, “Perhaps a job for two hands.”

He glances down at the fist still stuffed in her pocket and Eliza nearly jumps, her stack of glasses precariously swaying again. She drops the nickel hastily to steady it herself, note firmly clutched between two fingers.

“This is for you,” she blurts out, and at once, the world returns to them as she pushes the note into his chest because he must be the one: the other men had been clean and suntanned as well, and they are all part of the group of newcomers. Interesting, then, that only the three of them hadn’t deigned to touch the mines. She wonders what Annie would have to say about that.

He moves so incredibly fast that it’s nearly a blur: his hand swipes down to snatch the paper away and he huffs his annoyance, seemingly at her, before tucking it deep within his pocket discreetly. She feels somehow that she’s made a mistake, though she’s done exactly as she’s been asked, but he’s gone and lost into the crowd before she can question it.

—

Eliza knows the foreman, as everyone does. The half of the town that isn’t under his tenuous employment regard him bitterly, knees sore and rotted from kneeling in shallow rivers with cheap pans. He’s known for skimming wages and underweighting nuggets, for letting men wilt at the bottom of a shaft, for dwelling at the brothel and games house at the further end of the street, though his appearance here may indicate he’s been placed on temporary ban again. He’s a scammer, a thief, and a murderer, but he strides through the town as if he owns it, because he does, in a way.

He’s just a small part in a much bigger force, hired by the mining companies that have invaded the entire West, stripping through homesteads and erecting personal sheriff’s offices to ensure their wreckage is without abandon, but here, to the workers, he’s a king, and Annie quietly announces his presence to Eliza as she cleans dishes in the kitchen as such.

The saloon quiets just enough for the foreman to notice and he takes it as a sign of respect, pinching the brim of his hat with two greasy fingers and tipping it over his beady eyes, reddened from the sun and drink. Then he and his two brakesmen sidle over to the nearest empty table, taking little notice of the stranger already sitting there.

He’s found his way to a glass of whiskey, Eliza notes, as she heads towards the table, and despite the foreman profoundly ignoring his presence, he’s straightened his shoulders and turned his head ever so slightly, and anyone who hasn’t witnessed his change in posture would assume he’s equally indifferent.

“Whatever’s hot,” the foreman demands, as soon as he catches sight of her. “And three rye whiskeys, a jug o’ ale, and a deck a’ cards.”

“Apologies, Foreman,” she says, and out of the corner of her eye, the stranger casually lights up a cigarette, sinking his used match into the hard wood of the table. He’s peering at her out of the corner of his eye and it takes all her strength to ignore it and continue. “We’ve just run out of our stew. We got sandwiches, if you’d like. Bacon and egg, or mince.”

“Ya sure ya can’t whip something up for me?” The foreman asks, and he stretches his lips into a predatory grin, revealing mismatched yellow teeth. The brakesman next to him moans his hunger, and the foreman waves his hand dismissively, almost catching Eliza in the cheek. “Ack, fine. Whatever. Cold food and cold women.”

He flicks a cigarette butt at her, turning away without another word. Tonight, at least, he’s wandered into the inn sober, and pliant to his cronies’ needs. The cigarette ashes itself out on her apron and not her dress, thankfully, and tumbles to the floor. She kneels down to pick it up, utterly unacknowledged by the foreman, and feels the stranger’s gaze upon her.

“He do that often?” He asks, and it’s so quiet she thinks she may have misheard.

When she turns, the stranger’s keen blue gaze darts between the butt in her hand and the foreman, now deeply engaged in a raucous conversation with his brakesmen.

“He’s not here often,” Eliza replies. The stranger nods, turning the scrap of paper she had delivered to him earlier between his fingers idly. She points to his own empty glass, if only to continue the conversation. “Need a refill?”

“So when he’s here,” he continues, and Eliza holds back a huff of annoyance. She does not take kindly to men, especially newcomers, asking such questions. As if they won’t all turn into some parody of the foreman after mere weeks under his charge. “You would say he’s always like that?”

“You would do better askin’ the girls at the cathouse,” Eliza says bluntly. Then, hastily, she adds, “Mister—”

“Morgan,” he introduces. He tucks the note back into his pocket and Eliza cannot ignore the glint of metal at his holster. “Arthur.”

He hits a twang on his vowels but she can’t place the rest of his accent, few words they’ve exchanged. Definitely not local, though not quite Deep South and with less flair than the East Coast.

“Well, Mister Morgan, if you’re here for prospectin’, it would serve you good to demand minimal questions about your future boss,” Eliza tells him, and it sounds like a threat though it’s the honest truth. She glances back at the foreman, who is still oblivious to the talk happening right next to him. “Ain’t nothin’ about him you won’t learn.”

“Ain’t here for that type of prospectin’,” he sighs, and he leans back into his seat. Taps his glass before reaching for a cigarette. “Bourbon, if you got it.”

He signals the end of his conversation with the strike of a match, and she whisks away to the kitchen, cheeks flushed.

When she returns, three bacon and egg sandwiches are placed on the table, followed by one drink at a time in quick succession. The bourbon hits the surface with such ferocity that she regrets it immediately after, but she refuses absolutely to look back as she switches on to bar duty, relieving Annie to go to their shared room behind the saloon.

He doesn’t order another drink for the rest of the night, but occasionally during a lull, she’ll catch his eye for just a moment. Gaze focused on her with an expression so profound she must force herself back into her work; when she dares to look back up, he’s looking away again, peering at the foreman as he drinks himself louder and louder, or off to the dullest corner of the saloon, tucked away where the flickering glow of the oil lamps can’t quite reach.

Sleep escapes her long after her shift is over.


	2. 1890 (II)

“Well, apparently, the foreman ain’t the only one who got kicked out the whorehouse last night,” Annie is saying energetically as they fry eggs for the breakfast service.

“Language, Annie,” Mister Ward calls out, through the open kitchen door.

“The  _ maison _ ,” Annie sighs, rolling her eyes. “I swear, there must’ve been a dozen new men. Margaret told me of ‘em was just a scrawny kid, couldnt’ve been more’n sixteen, seventeen?”

“Ain’t you turn seventeen this past spring?” Eliza asks, not bothering to question how her colleague has managed to speak to the girls at the cathouse in between their sleep and the sunrise start to their shift.

“Yes, but I don’t try to rent ladies,” Annie points out, and to her, it’s a perfectly valid argument. Eliza smiles to herself and lays slices of bread upon the grill. “Anyhow, I reckon the mine will collapse, they try to squeeze more workers in. I hear the rush is endin’ soon, ‘cause it always gets most busy when the rush is boutta end.”

“We can only hope,” Eliza says wryly.

“You’re terrible!” Annie exclaims. “If the rush dies and they don’t find another reason to keep this town alive, we’ll all be dust.”

Mister Ward wanders back in, clutching a basket which holds the remaining eggs. Dutifully, Eliza sets up the plates, depositing two eggs, a half cut of steak, and two pieces of toast in each one, before Mister Ward hands her the list of rooms to service. It’s a full house today, all twelve rooms taken by new names. Most will move to tents near the mining site before the week ends, though the name at the bottom of the list, hastily scrawled as if ordered last-minute, seems unlikely.

She tries not to think about it as she climbs the stairs, trays stacked neatly in her hands. The first six occupants she visits are still sleeping, groaning their appreciation inaudibly, and Eliza turns the handle before closing their doors so as not to further disturb them. Then she heads back down to grab the rest of the breakfasts. 

Room seven has her first awake guest, and she beams him a bright smile before recognition sets in—the older man who had given her the note, whose affixing a necktie to himself. It dulls her service considerably, and she silently places the tray upon his side table, meaning to turn away and scuttle out before he stops her:

“My dear, would you mind checking on my friend in room twelve?”

Eliza turns at the door, trays in hand. When she doesn’t reply, he continues. “Ah. I see you’re quite busy. Well, I doubt he’s awake—just tell him we’ll be waiting at the crossroads at noon. Say it’s a message from Hosea.”

She nods curtly and leaves the room with the door open. Then, she bides her time with rooms eight through eleven, taking great care in serving breakfasts and offering coffees and fresh lamps to the hungover patrons. 

Finally, when she can procrastinate no longer and the eggs in the final tray are certifiably cold, bread soggy from all the juices of the steak, she finds herself outside of room twelve. She is not feeling particularly inclined to see this Arthur Morgan this early in the morning; his stares last too long and he holds an unexpected amount of mystery though Eliza is certain she knows his business. She has seen his type before and all that has resulted in is broken hearts and dead-end jobs in dusty saloons. 

She decides barging in with no regard is her best approach, though her fluster calms when she finds the room empty, though signs of him litter her vision. He’s left his bed mussed and an oil lamp burning: presumably, he’s expected to return quickly. The side table is occupied by his hat and holster, so she leaves his breakfast on a chair with a leather jacket hanging off the back. There’s glints of metal from within, and a battery of knives are found within the inner straps. 

She shakes her head to herself. She knows exactly who he is, in fact.

A few minutes of idling later, she blows out the oil lamp, as it’s apparent he will not be returning anytime soon. She picks up the tray of food so she can place it on the warm grill when she heads back downstairs, perhaps serve it to a visiting patron, or share with Annie during their break. She’ll need to tell Mister Hosea that his message was not received, but perhaps Mister Morgan has already made his way to their meeting, and maybe the former would still offer her a decent tip for trying.

Then a sight catches her eye through the half-open balcony door, and her heart jumps quickly in her chest.

Unlike before, she sets herself up with all the means of politeness and serviceability, knocking gently on the wall to alert him of her presence. Places the tray on a card table to his right, receives a solemn nod of acknowledgment in return.

He’s without a shirt, she tries not to notice, and there’s a clean line of demarcation between his tan and his chest, pale and smooth, save for patchy bits of hair and bright pink scars, trailing down his sides and towards his—

She squints at the rising sun in hopes to burn the picture from her mind.

“You gotta message,” she informs him plainly. “From Mister Hosea.”

He props his bare feet up onto another chair, taking a quick puff from his cigarette before plucking it out, letting it dangle between two fingers. “Well, go on then,” he says.

Stubble has set in quickly throughout his face and neck overnight. He scratches at it idly, waiting for her to continue.

“He would like you to meet him at the crossroads at noon,” she recites. 

“He too busy affixin’ his neck tie to tell me that himself?” He laughs, and it’s throaty and gravelly and not all too unpleasant to hear. “Alright, if you see ‘im wanderin’ around, tell him I got it. Don’t go out of your way, though, otherwise the postal service will start gettin’ antsy.”

His ease into conversation surprises her, given the curtness of his words last night. The cigarette is placed back between his lips and Eliza finds herself idling at his side. The view is quite peaceful, after all—the balcony looks on towards untouched lands—and she reckons she can enjoy it for a few more moments before she is needed back downstairs.

“Your eggs are probably cold,” she says eventually, and apologetically. “I can reheat it, if you’d like.”

He looks up at her with bewilderment, as if no one’s ever offered him that before. “‘S fine,” he mutters. A hand runs through his hair, and the longer strands catch strewn rays of sunlight, turning them golden.

She looks back out at the view, the trees and hills, swaying gently against a morning breeze. Mister Ward had purposefully faced the balcony away from the jagged mountains, and she’s grateful. It’s a refreshing reminder that there is a world beyond decrepit mining sites.

In the distance, a small explosion is heard, followed by the familiar shatter of rocks.

Eliza sighs. The work day has begun for everyone else, and she must return to hers.

—

The morning blends quickly into night, and Eliza feels she has barely finished sweeping the floors before Mister Ward shoves potato and onion soup into hands, ordering her to eat with haste; the supper rush has already begun.

She’s used to eating scraps, as most of the twenty-pound sack of potatoes had gone into the mash for tonight, and there’s even bread left over from the morning to supplement her meal before she’s back out on the floor, delivering trays and drink orders in a flash. Acknowledges the newcomers by name and smiles at their dirtied, happy faces. She hopes they remain that way when payday hits.

Lean cuts of steak from the bull Mister Ward had purchased this morning are placed at each table, with a side of mashed potatoes and warmed canned peas. The foreman is back—she can hear his guffaws from across the saloon—and she makes her way over before he gets restless.

“Evenin’,” she greets mildly, seeking positivity in the fact that at least he’s here early, which generally means a better night for everyone, including the girls at the cathouse. 

“And ale for the table,” the foreman orders, with a wide grin. He sets a hand at Eliza’s waist and she shrivels beneath it, clammy and pudgy but not unfamiliar, unfortunately. “Eh, let’s get two rounds for everyone.”

Eliza nods, trying to inch away and out of the foreman’s grasp. She can hear the saloon doors swing open but doesn’t dare look up to who she  _ knows _ is standing there. Watching her, unmoving, as she withers away.

“And a deck a’ cards.”

She musters a tight smile. “‘Course.”

And then she feels a warm pressure slide down her back and pinch at her behind, accompanied by a hard tap, which sends her scuttling away, the foreman’s chuckles fading away with each step she puts between them.

She looks up instantly for Mister Ward, who would go red-faced and short-breathed if he ever witnesses such a thing, but his attention is on the bar. It may be futile regardless, she concedes, because if he were to ban the foreman as he bans any other depraved customer, it could be the end of the inn. A simple threat on worker’s wages for their patronage of the saloon and they’d all be out within the week. It’s why the cathouse lets him in night after night, because terrible business is better than no business.

Then, against her better judgment, she looks at the saloon door, where Arthur just shakes his head, stamping out his cigarette on the windowsill.

She steadies herself and heads for the bar, focusing on the floor as she waits for the pitchers to fill. She thinks of telling Mister Ward, who is serving glass after glass of whiskey bourbon to the growing line of men, but her boss is so busy and the pitchers are nearly full and it would hardly solve anything, if at all. And she can handle herself, she concludes, as she switches off the tap and tucks a worn deck of cards into her pocket, and it was a minor humiliation, really, not even worth it to put a pause on everyone’s day.

When she’s back at the foreman’s tableside, though, he’s facedown in a plate of mash.

Eliza splutters, face growing hot with flush and prickling as she rushes forward, ale spilling out of the pitchers as she sets them down in a rush. “No—”

“Apologize,” Arthur growls, pushing the foreman’s head deeper into the plate. He looks up at Eliza pointedly, and she shakes her head desperately. “Look her in the eyes and apologize.”

“Ain’t done nothing,” the foreman musters, and his brakesmen have leapt up from their seats to claw at Arthur, who shrugs them off like flies, sending one flying across a table with a firm push to his chest. The foreman wrenches his head up and swings an arm, which Arthur ducks swiftly, shoving him back into the table.

Around them, the bar lulls to a pause, everyone looking on at the scene he is causing. Arthur pays no mind, dragging the foreman up by his collar and pointing back at her, and she can feel dozens of sets of eyes upon her.

“Ain’t seem like nothing to lady.”

She recedes, flinches visibly when the foreman looks up at her, mash hanging off his beard and brows, but cannot seem to move otherwise as she tries to protest. “It’s really—”

There’s no opportunity to finish her sentence as the foreman finally lands a hit on Arthur’s face, causing him to drop the shorter man and behind him, the brakesmen recover and descend upon him. It seems like nothing for Arthur to avoid their flailing arms and elbow one square in the nose, the other landing on his back on the floor.

Eliza reels, caught between unwillingly needing to help the fallen brakesman and the scene before her. Arthur turns back to the foreman in a fury, and there’s a distinct wildness in his eyes and the set of his teeth when he charges full-force, one arm pulled back. The audience—since this is a damn performance, isn’t it?—jeers and whoops around her but she cannot fathom any enjoyment in this situation, only bracing herself as his knuckles crack against the foreman’s jaw. The foreman falls spectacularly, taking multiple chairs and plates with him, before stumbling and collapsing against the gathered crowd. 

Then, a familiar voice:

“Oh, you’ll be alright,” Mister Hosea says kindly, having caught the foreman before he hits the floor. The older man pats his shoulders gently as the foreman huffs, straightening himself back up, cheeks beet-red and quickly deepening with a bruise. “Just need to walk it off, isn’t that so?”

She eyes as Hosea, with all the proclivity of an aiding civilian, smooths out the foreman’s jacket, and she doesn’t miss his hand slipping inside between the folds of his clothes and pulling out as a fist, tucked quickly behind his back. Then he’s guiding the foreman through the saloon towards the entrance, hiding his theft with a series of comforting words. 

As soon as the chaos had begun, it’s over, as man-made frenzy generally is. Slowly, the bar dissipates around them, first with whispers, then resuming their chatter, and all that’s left is the smell of spilt ale and an unbearable heat in the air. 

Eliza lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding in, and when she finds herself in the middle of the bar, workers picking up their card games and drinks where they had left off, she similarly attempts to shake herself back to normality. She reaches for a fallen chair, and a large, calloused hand reaches out as well.

She turns, looking up at him as she kneels on the floor. Unlike the foreman, who she can still hear spluttering about, he has returned to calm and reservation, no hint of animality left in his face. Not even a bead of sweat gathered at his forehead. All the fire in his eyes have cooled and he looks almost apologetic. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whispers, and together, they rise, one hand each on the back of chair. Hers, so slender and pale, and his, knuckles split like individual ravines, smeared with potato and blood. 

Arthur blinks at her. “I had to,” he replies simply. He looks down at her wrist, nearly exposed, and she snatches her hand away from the chair and gestures towards it dismissively. He sits and lights a cigarette without any indication of what has just happened, and Eliza can’t help but let her gaze linger a little too long before she storms back to the kitchen.

Mister Ward calls out her name as she passes by the bar but she can barely see him through the tears gathering in her eyes. With a huff, she seizes the first kitchen towel she sees and strides back to his table, tossing it in front of him gracelessly.

Silently, he takes it and presses it against his knuckles, otherwise ignoring her. More words percolate on her tongue but she cannot bring herself to say any of them, and her hesitation misses the moment entirely, as the foreman passes by with Hosea’s grip still firmly steering. 

“—walk it off, walk it off, how about you and the boys head on over to the lady parlour, that’ll set you right back up—”

Arthur barely flinches when the foreman wrenches around to spit at his feet, scraping back his chair immediately with his fists clenched around his utensils. She can see Hosea’s grip whiten as he restrains the foreman, though he falters swiftly when Arthur stands, leaning obtrusively forward.

“Don’t tempt me,” he snarls. “Your mug could still do with some symmetry.”

“There’s nothin’ worth getting hit twice for,” Hosea cuts in, before the foreman can retaliate. He offers a quick nod to Arthur, which he returns in kind, then a half-smile towards Eliza. “Ma’am.”

It is only then glue on the bottom of her shoes eases enough to release her from her stance, finally heeding Mister Ward’s calls in the distance. Shady, shady men, she thinks, gritting her teeth. It didn’t matter if they weren’t company-certified and out in the open, or dwelling in the shadows with nought but a glint of metal shining from their holster. They’re all the same, in the end, and when Mister Ward descends upon her in a fit of near hysterics, babbling falsely about _never letting the types of ‘im_ _in here ever again, I swear it Eliza_, all she can think of the two days that Arthur Morgan has been in her life and the tilt in her gravity that has resulted.

She thinks of her deep, desperate wish for him to finish his business here in this town and in her existence and disappear. As they all do, and she has come to terms with this long ago. She’s been marked by the Devil himself and perhaps it is him that she pleads to as Mister Ward places her on bar duty, far away from the hubbub of the masses, to rid her of her eternal curse that is twinkling-eyed men with dark hearts and bloodied knuckles.

He does not catch her eye for the rest of the night. And even for that, she is grateful. 

—

“I can’t  _ believe _ I missed it,” Annie sighs dreamily, head lifting up from her pillow when Eliza enters their room. “I knew it as soon as I saw him come in. I could feel it.”

Eliza looks up at her from the corner of her eye, and she’s not quite in the mood for Annie’s midnight musings, and even less to dwell on how she  _ possibly _ could have heard about tonight’s events after she had been sent to bed. Still, Eliza offers a glum, “Feel what?” 

“That he’s a good man,” Annie replies. She flops back down onto her mattress, hand over her heart. “And there ain’t a lotta them left, you know.”

Eliza knows, though her judgment on Arthur’s status is as a good man is not currently of Annie’s opinion. 

Annie whispers a mischievous  _ sweet dreams _ before Eliza is dead to the world.


End file.
